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Something breaks inside me. Not control— something deeper.

The world narrows to a single point: his knowing smile. His knowledge of Bobik. The threat hanging between us.

I move without conscious thought, years of training taking over. My hand knocks the gun sideways before his finger can squeeze the trigger, the weapon clattering across the floor. But it comes at a price.

Novikov may be aging, but he fights with the desperate strength of a cornered animal. His fist connects with my jaw, splitting my lip. I taste copper, feel the adhesive of my fake beard loosening.

We grapple in the near-darkness, crashing against stalls, sinks, walls. His knee drives into my stomach. My elbow connects with his temple. Neither of us willing to yield.

“I’ll destroy him, you hear me?” Novikov pants, blood streaming from his nose. “I’ll tell everyone about your crippled boy. How the great Aleksei Tarasov hides his fucked-up kid—”

“Ty umresh’ pervym,” I snarl. I grab him by the lapels and slam him backward. His head connects with the porcelain sink with a sickening crack and he falls to the ground.

His body goes instantly limp.

He slides to the floor, eyes open but seeing nothing, a dark pool spreading beneath his silver hair.

Silence fills the bathroom, broken only by my ragged breathing.

Blyad.

This wasn’t the plan. It was to give him a scare.

I kneel beside him, checking for a pulse I already know isn’t there. His skin cools beneath my fingers, life draining away with his blood.

The emergency lights flicker, then stabilize. The main power will return soon. I have minutes, perhaps seconds, before someone investigates.

Trakhni menya!

I stand, mind racing through scenarios, consequences, solutions. Novikov’s death will trigger a war between our organizations, regardless of how it happened. But an assassination carries different implications than an accident.

Decision made, I move quickly.

First, the gun— I wipe it clean and place it back in his jacket, careful not to disturb the position of his body. Next, the scene— I adjust the angle of his fall to make it appear as if he slipped on the wet floor. Finally, the evidence— I remove my fake beard, glasses, and bloody jacket, stuffing them into the trash beneath several paper towels.

The bathroom window is narrow but serviceable. I force it open, wincing at the scrape of metal on metal, and pull myself through the opening. The alley beyond is empty, shadowed by the building’s bulk.

I drop to the ground, straightening my shirt and retrieving the backup jacket I’d stashed in my messenger bag. The transformation from disguised assailant to respectable businessman takes less than thirty seconds.

My phone vibrates. Sasha.

“It’s done,” I tell him before he can speak. “But there’s been a complication.”

“What kind of complication?” His voice sharpens.

“He’s dead.”

A pause. “Fuck, Aleksei. That wasn’t the plan.”

“He knew about Bobik.”

Another pause, longer this time. “How?”

“I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

I end the call, already moving toward the street where the car waits. My mind catalogs the immediate threats: security cameras outside the lounge, potential witnesses, the investigation that will follow.

All manageable problems.